


le prisonnière et le fugitive

by spock



Category: The King (2019)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Disabled Character, Dubious Consent, M/M, Shakespearean Magical Realism, Soul Bond Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:55:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: A ball arrives.The visions start.
Relationships: The Dauphin/Henry V of England
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: Limited Theatrical Release 2020





	le prisonnière et le fugitive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



Sir William talks and talks and talks on end. Hal's body sits in front of him a captive audience, listening, always listening, yet his gaze is trained far away, squinting against the glare of a sun that has never seen fit to shine so brightly on Hal’s own fair nation.

It feels an omen. One he must keep to himself.

The crown that has been destined to sit uneasy on his head feels now a mere trifle.

— — —

Dusk bleeds into the sky around them, casting the world blue. The ship beneath Hal's feet creaks and groans as it cuts through the water. Hal blinks hazily at the vague impression of a finely dressed room, lost in the flicking light of a well-tended fire existing just out the focus of his gaze.

He fears he is losing his mind to madness. Or worse, though he has yet the knowledge nor imagination to forecast what _worse_ might be.

Eventually night comes. Hal stays on top of the deck until it does. The clouds overhead are so thick that not even the heavens above find gaps enough to guide their way. The men with which he has outfitted his fleet are tested and true; no light escapes a single one of their wooden hulls, no sounds.

It is only the wind and the dark which keeps Hal company on this night, no visions or spectres, just dark, and in these he finds peace.

— — —

Hal rests in the little cot that's been deemed his bed and sees the chair that's been brought with them on this expedition to serve as his throne, the box keeping his personal effects next to it, the scene appearing with such clarity that it feels a strange dream. William calls for him; Hal turns his head in attention. It is with growing unease that Hal begins to suspect that he has been awake the entire time. That sleep has yet to visit him on this night.

It feels a common thing, now. To be suspicious of himself, as he would his gravest enemy.

The Dauphin sits proud on Hal's throne, as comfortable with John and all of Hal's council surrounding him as Hal himself might be. Hal sees himself through the Dauphin's eyes — a boy king, long-travelled, having made no attempts to make himself presentable for the man that has come calling and entrenched himself so thoroughly onto Hal's throne at so deep an hour of the night.

Then Hal stops seeing anything at all.

He stands, sightless, listening to the Dauphin lay forth his speech, his threats. The tent is consumed with the well-perfumed scent in which the Dauphin seems to have bathed himself, and it overwhelms what remains of Hal's senses just as much as the strange lilt of his English does.

John yawns. It is this that brings Hal back to himself, gives him something within this room to focus on beyond the Dauphin's existence, his tent returned to a physical thing in which he is rooted and not the chasm of space where he was previously lost, untethered.

"Have you heard what I said?" the Dauphin asks.

"I have." Hal knows at once that he must leave this place before his affliction is discovered. "It was stirring." He tilts his chin in the direction where he recalls John to be seated, from whence the yawn had come, and says, "Sir John, please walk with me." John sighs as he goes to his feet, the sound rising with him as he does. Hal returns his head to face the centre of his chest. "Good night."

Men move out of the path of their king, and it is this knowledge that inspires forth the confidence within Hal to turn, to walk from the tent and into the night, sightless and without aim. John is warmth at his back, keeping pace, and it is the heat of him, the matching squelch of his boots in the mud at their feet, that tells Hal that his order has been obeyed.

"Ready the men to move," he says, once he has counted ten steps, each one of them a pounding beat alongside his heart, echoed with a singular thought: _I can do this_. "Waste no time."

— — —

Dawn breaks and Hal carries on. There are men to dress him, to ready his horse, a beast who itself has seen enough of battle to hardly require Hal's guidance, making its way through their parade at its discretion, Hal along for the ride.

They pass a forest that smells as much as the Dauphin as the tent had; John comments as much, voice becoming distant as he and his horse venture away from it, Dorset fixed at Hal's side, next to his ear, urging for them to cross rather than continuing their path along the Somme.

Hal's horse follows John's, decided.

He does not need sight to know that Dorset boils in their wake.

— — —

The camp is consumed with the gore of the head they tell him a boy has returned with; a gift from the French Prince.

Unable to consume such horrors for himself, Hal is left only with thoughts with which to occupy himself.

He feels wrath and vengeance once thought impossible for himself to possess. Pettiness, revenge, all the things that made him turn from his father, emotions which he once believed he knew better than to allow to fester in his heart — all which now seem to have settled roots into his very soul.

Hal shares this venom with John, believing it to be well-met by his most dear and trusted counsel, and finds himself turned aside like a raging child.

John seems so sure when he says that Hal is not _this_ man.

What use is a king cursed with the likes of what God has seen fit to blight upon Hal? And if not hexed from God outright, than that which God had not intervened to shield Hal from? What will John, or indeed any of his men, do once they realize what has come into effect?

Hal isn’t sure _what_ sort of man he is now.

They ride on, Hal's horse leading England's unknowing army in Hal’s stead. The sun is warm at the back of his neck; they have come to a clearing, trees no longer providing shade overhead. He begins to shift back into his saddle; the ground in front of them rising, a hill. He halts and hears John and the rest stop beside him, the echo of his decision cascading throughout the ranks at his back.

"Dorset," Hal calls, "summon your fastest rider." The boy advances to Hal’s side; his voice does not sound as if it has yet broken.

Hal finds himself repeatedly relegating the fate of his kingdom to beasts and children. "Tell me what lies over that hill," Hal commands. "Ride fast, return directly."

— — —

Hal sits with John at his side, waiting to see if John's knee will hold itself to be as true on foreign shores as it was in Eastcheap. He feels a coward, pleading with John to speak forth, to cause an end to what Hal realizes has become a cursed endeavour, if it was not always one from the start.

It would be a kindness, John laying plain that his scheme sits a lie. That they should do as Dorset begged, and return home.

But John is a better man than any; it is he who knows battle far greater than any other. If John says it will rain this night, it will rain.

That they shall fight on a hill in Agincourt without horses, without armour, then through this strategy, they will surely win. Their army shall witness victory come morning because Sir John Falstaff said it to be true, even if it shall most assuredly secure Hal's demise in the process.

"Here we are on the eve of this fight and I am," Hal begins, feeling the heat of the fire in front of them warm his face. "I am scared to wonder, to tell it true, why we are even here."

He has only just finished when John replies, "You'd best discover the answer for that. The men out there deserve it." As if he been waiting for Hal’s confession, already having prepared his rebuttal, this reprimand.

Two players, reciting their lines.

Hal’s life since his father's death has often seemed a fiction, made ever more surreal, wrong, with each occurrence of John calling him _my leige_ , _your Highness_ , or any other such title rather than the litany of curses he found cause to fondly blaspheme Hal with during their shared time in Eastcheap. Yet it is no more so than now that Hal feels true erroneousness of his station, leading these men into battle, as blind to his motivations as he is to the world surrounding him, too willful to admit either.

Only a short time has passed since Hal's blissful existence with this man. Now he sits on foreign soil, a nation held atop his shoulders, coming to terms with impending death whilst knowing this shall be a burden he cannot share, for it shall ruin John should he ever come to know it.

Whatever forces might've conspired to bring Hal to this moment, at least they saw fit enough to grant him the one mercy of John at his side, Hal thinks.

And it is this thought, as John comes to him after the rain has settled and the morning has come, outfitted in heavy armour that Hal can hear even if he cannot see it, ready to sacrifice himself for Hal and his cause without realizing that this is fated to be _Hal's_ gravesite, and not John's own, that brings the dawning horror to Hal’s heart. It is this thought which inspires Hal to do what he likely should have done the moment he stepped into his tent in the middle of the to find the Dauphin on his throne.

His horse carries him into the French encampment; it only takes a shout requesting an audience with the Dauphin for the prince's men to lead Hal to him. He can hear their breathing all around him, the shifting of their heavy armour, the suck of the muddied field causing them strain and effort even here, on their own grounds, exactly as John had predicted. Hal drops to his knee on a covering of straw shielding the Dauphin's meeting-ground from bog-like earth below and is encouraged to speak English.

Hal can tell which direction is north by the wind whipping against his cheeks. From England, John had said. The Dauphin is sitting to the East.

He makes plain his offer to the Dauphin, a hidden promise to sacrifice himself, knowing that he is forsaking his country and willing to do so if it means that John will get the ending he deserves: a peaceful death over a bottle, safe and at home in Eastcheap and not this sodden field in a foreign land, a pointless battle in which Hal’s poisoned friendship has dragged him to.

There is a change that scents the air when a man is on the precipice of losing the confidence of his men. Hal can sense it now, as he concludes his offer. He wonders if the Dauphin is yet wise enough in the politics of war to pick up on it as well, to see that it will be _this_ that defines him in their eyes, and not the outcome of whatever subsequent battle takes place.

If the Dauphin is the sort of man to care about what his men think of him, so long as they obey.

That obedience only goes so far.

“You came here,” the Dauphin shouts. “To me! Surrender to me!”

Shame coils hot in Hal’s belly, just as fear seizes his throat. It is to be his choice, then.

He tries to make peace within himself, with his pride; Hal made this decision before he took mount on his horse and rode in what he had only been able to hope was the direction of the Dauphin’s camp. It should not matter the means by which he must subjugate himself in order to attain the outcome it is he desires.

The knowledge does nothing to make what must come next easier to sallow.

He rises to his feet and switches to French, a minuscule concession to what remains of his dignity. “You speak of surrender,” he says. “If that is your wish, then it is a matter to be handled between monarchs alone, not on a battlefield in front of common men.” He takes gradual steps forward with each word, the scent of the Dauphin guiding him.

“Very well.” Hal takes care not to react; the Dauphin’s voice so much closer than he expected. “Follow me.”

Hal attunes himself to the Dauphin’s gait, the count and measure of his steps. Men part for them as they pass. Hal wonders if the Dauphin knows what he has been gifted, as well as what he has forsaken, in failing to offer the same which he demands of his men by relegating Hal to surrender.

Shade comes upon them suddenly, reducing the heated glare of the sun on his armour; they have passed through the threshold of the Dauphin's tent.

“Dauphin,” he says.

“Louis, if you please,” the wind of his breath ghosts against Hal’s cheek. “Why do you not look me in the eye, I wonder?” Hal turns to where he approximates the Dauphin to be standing, tilting his chin up to meet the direction of his voice. “You speak of France and England under one rule,” the Dauphin’s words come from the left of him now, and Hal pivots on his feet, chasing the sound. His affliction must be obvious, this close, and he feels his face grow hot. “If this is your wish, what great issue is there in France doing the leading, with neither of us dead? It is not I who requires you gone, little Henry — I believe you to have other uses.”

A kiss lands violent against his lips, the Dauphin’s hands gripping tight into his hair.

Hal’s sight returns to him. He sees shock engraved upon his own face, mouth open and lush as the Dauphin pulls back to inspect him. His hair has been whipped into a frenzy from the wind, the English wind, and whatever else the Dauphin might have done to it with his hand.

“What witchcraft?” Hal licks his lips, his own hand coming up to grip the Dauphin’s where it rests at his cheek.

It is strange, to only see his own reactions.

“Better than what you get in England, no?” the Dauphin taunts, pressing forward, a personal advance. Hal opens his mouth and accepts him again, experiencing the disorienting sensation of his own face drawing closer until darkness seizes him yet again.

He jolts back; the view of himself returns. “What have you done?” Hal demands it this time, fury rising in him.

The Dauphin pulls away, his hands releasing Hal’s face. Hal is returned into blindness. “I will not force you.”

He surges forward, towards the Dauphin's voice, hands searching the air between them until his grip catches the Dauphin’s shoulders. Hal slides his fingers up the slope of the Dauphin's pauldron until he catches the soft skin of his neck. He sees himself again, the expression on his face is one of terror, an animal cornered, desperate.

He needs to keep the Dauphin’s hands on him, and his own the Dauphin. Hal understands this now.

It’s the first time that he’s assisted another in ridding themselves of armour, his fingers clumsy; he looks to be a fool through the Dauphin’s eyes, frantic and fumbling, unable to see what his hands are doing with the Dauphin's attentions so attuned to Hal's face. Hal tries to make his expression seem eager, to stomp down the terror within him. “Louis,” he says, begs. His face swims closer, and it isn’t as much of a shock when his vision blinks out again, the Dauphin shutting his eyes once his lips meet Hal’s. “Touch me,” he says, speaking into the Dauphin's mouth.

“ _Yes_.”

Hal never allows his hands stray from the Dauphin’s skin, more and more of it revealed to him with each passing second as the Dauphin undoes the clasps and hooks of his armour with a speed and surety that has Hal questioning the pampered-softness which John seemed to regard him with. The Dauphin’s movements are that of a man used to seeing to himself, moreso even then Hal himself.

The Dauphin undresses Hal as well, making even swifter work of Hal’s meagre breastplate and chainmail; their shared view changes as the Dauphin’s gaze shifts to the floor, the mass of it now collected at their feet.

“I have heard many a tale of your exploits,” he says, dragging his eyes up the length of Hal’s body until they settle heavy on his lips. “Tell me, Henry, has your ascension changed you so much, or does the boy you once were remain, at least in these matters?”

It is strange to feel the rich furs that must line the Dauphin's bed and yet only see himself hovered above, the roof of the tent at his back. The Dauphin’s gaze never strays from him, his hand fisting yet again within Hal’s hair, seemingly finding a home for himself as Hal undoes the laces of the Dauphin's trousers through touch alone, the placement of his hands just shy of the Dauphin’s focus. Hal finds him hard once freed, springing forth.

The head grazes Hal’s lips as if drawn there by instinct.

Hal knows not what will come next for him, but at least in this he is certain he has found a battle he can win.

“Where is he!” John’s voice calls loud across the camp. “Where is the King? If you bastards have touched even a hair on his head—”

The Dauphin’s attention is pulled. It’s a fight within himself, his eyes darting between the opening of his tent, down to where Hal has taken him into his throat. “Your dog,” he begins, and Hal swallows. “Fuck.”

John crosses through the threshold, settling the Dauphin's gaze. Hal would laugh at the shock at his face, suddenly feeling giddy, were his mouth not occupied.

“You disgusting heathen.” John’s voice is laced with wonder and disbelief. His hands settle on his hips and Hal isn’t sure if the reprimand is directed at him or the Dauphin. Likely both; the Dauphin had not been wrong in his gossip as to Hal’s exploits. None other than John can attest to the veracity of such.

Another hand appears within the folds of the tent, likely the Dauphin’s men coming to his aid. John is quicker than his appearance might suggest; he shoves at the heavy fabric, denying their entry. “Stay back,” he shouts. “Or risk the wrath of both our kings.”

None attempt to venture in again.

“And here I thought you were in peril,” John tsks.

Hal knows what comes next, now, the plan clear, fully-formed in his mind. He frees his mouth of the Dauphin’s cock, not minding that it draws the Dauphin’s gaze from John and back to himself. He crawls up the Dauphin’s body, kissing him deeply; the Dauphin's eyes close as Hal expected, even with another in the room. He had not been wrong — Hal has many skills, and knows how to put them to use to his particular ends.

He raises a hand behind himself, beckoning. John needs no further instruction. Hal feels himself yanked back, his vision blinking between sight and blindness returned as John brings down the hilt of his sword onto the Dauphin’s head, knocking him unconscious.

“Do not harm him,” Hal falls over himself, leaping forward to shield the Dauphin with his own body from whatever finishing blow John might have seen cause to deliver.

“For God’s sake,” John sighs. “This is too much even for you, boy, and I say this having seen what I previously thought to be your lowest hour.”

“I’ve been keeping something from you, John, and for that, I apologize.” Hal stands on his knees, his hands tracing the Dauphin’s face, feeling for the slickness of blood and feeling relief when there is none to be found. “However I've not time enough now to explain. Will you still follow me, Sir John, despite this?”

The sigh comes again, heavier. It is one Hal knows well. “I suppose I should be flattered you’ve even bothered to ask.” The bed sinks at his side; John’s hand settles on his shoulder. “What have you schemed up now?”

— — —

The Dauphin does not regain consciousness until they have already absconded to Harfleur and again onto the beach, returned to Hal’s ships. There is some guilt within him at the cowardice of his actions, forced to ride ahead in his haste, the rest of his army charged with Dorset to see them home.

Hal keeps them to his quarters, locked away with John’s word that none will disturb them, John himself sworn to prepare and see to their meals, Hal trusting none other to resist whatever madness patriotism might inspire in lesser men, to think that divesting this world of the Dauphin would be a kindness to Hal rather than the gravest blow.

John still knows not of the full scope of what afflicts his king, though he bears this ignorance with grace and patience Hal knows that he himself fails to possess.

There will be time enough to share answers once Hal discovers them.

He settles himself onto the floor and waits, the Dauphin's head resting in his lap, Hal stroking his brow until he begins to groan, eyes fluttering open. The wood of the deck serving as ceiling above them swims into focus as the Dauphin blinks hard, returning to himself.

“Louis,” Hal says, stroking the backs of knuckles across the man’s cheek as he urges him onto his side, gentle. “Look here,” he sees his own hand, gesturing, and then the Dauphin’s gaze turns, eyes catching the reflection in the mirror Hal’s other hand holds in front of the Dauphin's face.

Hal had only seen a glimpse of the Dauphin on his throne before his sight had left him. He drinks his fill in now: the golden length of his hair, the strong cut of his jaw, the porcelain cast of his skin. He is beautiful.

“What have you done?” The Dauphin begins to turn, looking up. Hal catches his chin in an iron grip, ensuring that his face, his eyes, remain trained on the mirror.

“I could ask you the same thing.” The Dauphin tries again to look away, but Hal is resolute. “The mirror, please,” he urges. “Did you know that your men had nothing to say about my man and I abducting you from their camp?” The Dauphin's lips roll into his mouth, shame tinting the gorgeous plane of his face red. After so long without seeing anything at all, Hal finds himself enraptured with the expressiveness of the Dauphin. “Why is that, do you think?”

“My father —”

“Does not concern me,” Hal interjects. The Dauphin fights off his grip at last; Hal allows him to, experiences yet again the foreign sensation of viewing his own face. His expression is blank, cold, at odds with the swirling pit of emotions he feels within himself. “During my coronation, you sent me a gift: a ball. I thought we might play a set one day.”

The Dauphin looks around the room, turning back to the mirror for a few seconds. He truly is reactive; Hal watches the thoughts cross his face, process as clear as if he were speaking each theory aloud as they come to him. “Difficult, no?” the Dauphin says, after a moment. “When you can only see through my eyes.”

He takes the mirror from Hal’s hand, angling it so that both of their faces are captured in its reflection, Hal’s hovering behind the Dauphin’s. Hal sees himself beginning to grin just as he experiences the feeling of it dawning across his face, vicious and manic. “Not if we’re on the same side,” he says.

The Dauphin's gaze turns considering. After a moment he leans back fully, resting his larger back to Hal's chest. In English, he says, “We met before, do you remember?”

Hal blinks, struggling. Most of his past is a blur, but he would remember having the likes of the Dauphin, even if he hadn’t known the man to be titled as such when he had him.

It shows on his face through the mirror; the Dauphin’s own expression goes sly. “When you were even more a child, little Henry, my father had us visit, some marriage, or another excuse. Their talks were tedious and hateful, so I took you into the gardens to play jeu de paume," his smile sharpens, "You were in love." He reaches behind himself, eyes following his hand in the mirror, allowing Hal to track them, to stroke his finger along Hal’s cheek. “And asked your father if we might promise to be wed. My father laughed and laughed; he said to me, ' _Louis, had you been a girl, then that would be two problems solved at once_.' Your father was the same, no? Always wishing for a different son. He was so cruel to you, even then. As men, first sons, we are a threat, always to be their problem. But you and I have lived a life outside the walls of their court, Henry.” He sits up fully, nose brushing Hal’s cheek. “ _Men can have alliances that mean more than marriage_ ; you told me this, as I held you while you cried, do you remember it now?”

He does, the memory of it now as clear to him as Louis' words.

The embarrassment, how it had only been bearable with Louis’ soft hands stroking the tears from his cheeks, shushing him. It had been the first time Hal had truly considered giving up his birthright, likely setting the seeds for his wastrel abdication.

He’d begged to be taken to France, not to be left behind.

 _One day you will see, my little prince,_ Louis had said to him, _our kingdoms are not so different, not when they are led by the same breed of tyrant._

“I see it now,” Hal answers.

Louis has closed his eyes, casting them both into darkness. It is of no matter to Hal; he can feel the press of Louis’ teeth against his cheek, the wide breadth of the grin that must now be cutting across his face, as well as if he were looking at it through either of their eyes.

— — —

The King of England sits on his thone. The rightful heir to France is stationed at his side; their hands are laced, a signet that once found its home on the king’s hand now a solid weight on Louis’ own.

A promise.

“It’s the emissary from the Holy See for you now, Hal,” John calls from across the room, his eye catching Louis’ gaze. John's expression matches what Hal imagines what Louis’ must be, luxurious and bored, so different from the stoic attentiveness that Hal himself attempts to exude.

John has said that that being in their presence is disorienting, though he and Louis get on as well as John and Hal ever have.

In truth, Hal often finds that it is _their_ combined will, and not his and Louis', to be the strongest force in Christendom, for all that it is often set to unholy ends.

“Do you think he wishes to dissuade you from taking France and increasing England’s power?” Louis asks; Hal can feel the grip of their hands shift, Louis sitting up straighter on his throne. “Or to offer a sponsorship? To spite my father and his French Pope, and then fuck us over by starting his own war once our army is weakened from having only just secured my land, hm?”

“The second one,” John answers for Hal, firm. For all of John's complaints of disorientation, it's been he alone who is resolute in remembering that to speak with Hal one must turn their attention to Louis, though in this Hal suspects John's interest lies not in Hal's opinion on the matter at all. “And it’ll be Spain paying for it all, somehow, you can be sure of that.”

“Let’s see what he has to say,” Hal says, returning himself to the discussion, “before deciding outright that God is to be added onto our list of enemies.”

John's eyes roll as he motions for the door to be opened with a lazy twist of his wrist; Louis' gaze cuts away to look at Hal. “Let us see,” Louis agrees, voice pure indulgence, his hand reaching between them, settling on Hal’s face, pulling Hal in. His eyes slide shut and submerge them into darkness as their lips meet, John calling forth to herald their guest.

**Author's Note:**

>  _A pair of wings, a different respiratory system which enabled us to travel through space, would in no way help us, for if we visited Mars or Venus while keeping the same senses, they would clothe everything we could see in the same aspect as the things of the Earth. The only true voyage, the only bath in the Fountain of Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them sees, that each of them is; and this we do, with great artists; with artists like these we do really fly from star to star._ — Marcel Proust


End file.
